The Mutant Games
by Dark Satirist
Summary: 74 years ago, the humans and the mutants entered the fiercest war this world has ever known. As punishment and as a constant reminder to how powerful the Capitol is, each year, all twelve remaining districts must offer up one boy mutant and one girl mutant to serve as tribute in The Mutant Games. These Games are a fight to the death, where only one tribute can survive.
1. Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

_Disclaimer: As much as I would love to be Suzanne Collins or the powers that be at Marvel, I am not. Therefore, I do not own these beloved characters, nor do I own the story lines, nor do I own really anything about this story. _

_Notice: I got this idea from ChristianGateFan's _Ever In Your Favor _and Gumby95's _Tribute_ (over on DA). I did ask permission before borrowing the idea, with the promise that this will be strictly my own work, which it is. I stick to my promises. With that said, any resemblance between my work and theirs is completely accidental and I am NOT trying to steal their wonderful works of art. Please do not accuse me as such. _

_Notes: This story is FRIENDSHIP ONLY, though, if you really want to, you can read it as pre-slash or slash… but it's meant strictly as friendship. Actually, there will be no romance at all in this story. _

_ Chapters are song titles, taken from _The Hunger Games _soundtrack and somehow relate to all of the chapters. _

_This story is basically the lovechild of _The Hunger Games _(both the movie and the book) and _X-Men First Class _(the most recent movie)…_

**The Mutant Games**

**Chapter 1: Tomorrow Will Be Kinder **

It was silent, save for the soft songs of the birds in the trees above Charles' head. He crept through the forest carefully, his footsteps falling quietly on the leafy carpet.

His prey walked a few feet ahead of him—a large doe with a limp. Charles had been tracking her for some time, ever since he had left the meadow.

The deer paused to take a sip at a small pond. Charles' breath caught as he swiftly raised his bow, aiming carefully.

He took a deep breath and held it, preparing to release the string.

The birds stopped singing.

A loud growl filled the air, accompanied by a strong, sudden breeze. The doe looked up in alarm, before taking flight.

Charles let out a hiss of anger as he shouldered his bow and ducked under a bush for cover. He recognized the hovercrafts of the Capitol anywhere. They were on their way to District 12 to set up for the Reaping.

The hovercraft passed and the birds went back to singing.

Charles let out a heavy sigh of frustration, knowing that the doe was long gone, vanishing down unseen game trails that he could never hope to follow.

With one last glance around the small clearing, just to make sure there wasn't any remaining game stupid enough to hang out after the hovercraft passed over, Charles headed back to the meadow. With any luck, Hank's snares would have caught something so they wouldn't have to return to District 12 completely empty handed.

* * *

Hank was perched on a log on the far side of the clearing, his face buried in a well-worn book. A pile of squirrels, rabbits, and a handful of birds sat beside him.

Charles smiled at the familiar sight, glad that one of them had been successful. That pile would bring in enough money for some much needed supplies.

Hank was a tall, lean, fourteen-year-old boy. He had short, dark brown hair that was generally very neatly kept and intelligent blue eyes that observed everything from behind large, square-framed glasses.

The other boy looked up at the sound of Charles' approach, his narrow face splitting into a wide grin.

"Charles!" he greeted happily, shoving his glasses back up his nose. They tended to fall down a lot. "I was beginning to think you'd never show up!"

Charles crossed the clearing, dropping his empty game sack to the ground, before sitting down on the log next to Hank.

"I was tracking a deer," he replied with a shrug.

Hank's face fell slightly. "I take it you didn't catch it?" he asked.

Charles shook his head. "The hovercraft scared it off."

Hank sighed. "The Capitol is out to ruin our lives," he said gravely.

"Don't talk like that," Charles scolded. Even out here, in the middle of the woods, far from civilization, it wasn't safe to talk about the Capitol.

"It's true!" Hank protested. "Every single year, they take two of us at random and then _kill_ us, Charles! And that's on top of the poor living conditions, where most of us nearly starve to death, and then the terrible work conditions that nearly get us all killed on a daily basis!"

It wasn't the first time Hank had ranted like this, nor would it be the last. All of what he said was true—Charles knew that better than anyone—but it wasn't safe for Hank to say those things. Especially today.

"What can we do, though?" Charles asked wearily, tired of constantly having to bring up this argument. "What can we do about it? The last time we tried rebelling, they erased an entire district off the map."

They had all heard about District 13, the last of the districts to attempt a rebellion. Ten years after the initial war had ended, District 13 had attempted to protest the cruel conditions the Capitol had imposed. The Capitol had responded by using nuclear bombs to completely destroy District 13 and all of its citizens. Occasionally, the Capitol would show images from the still-smoking remains, just to remind the other Districts what would happen if they decided to rebel.

Hank let out a weary sigh.

"I don't know," he muttered. "But it still sucks."

Charles understood. He had lost his entire family to starvation or the mines. But he also knew from experience that complaining about it did nothing except get others hurt.

The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes, before Charles remembered something.

"I almost forgot," he said, reaching into his game sack. "Alex gave us a Reaping Day present."

He pulled out the soft wedge of cheese, wrapped carefully in leaves. Charles couldn't even begin to imagine how much this treat had cost his oldest adopted brother.

Hank's eyes widened considerably. "Wow," he breathed. "Is that from-?"

"Farmer Frank's new goat? Yeah," Charles replied. "Alex said he was bringing home dinner, too."

The simple phrase brought a lump to Charles' throat and he looked away from Hank. He heard his adopted brother swallow hard and they both fell silent.

"How many times are you in today?" Hank asked quietly

Charles shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

He had entered twenty. Only six of those entries were mandatory—the Capitol required all mutant children between the ages of twelve and eighteen to enter into the Reaping. How old you were determined how many times you could enter. Charles' six were for his eighteen years. The rest were the result of the Capitol's twisted sense of humor. If you entered more times, you were allowed to bring home tesserae—a year's meager supply of oil and grain for each member of the entry's family. Charles had claimed both Hank and Alex as his family, though technically, they weren't related.

"Yes it does," Hank insisted.

Being fourteen, Hank was only entered twice. Both Charles and Alex had decided that they didn't want to increase their youngest brother's chances of being chosen.

Alex was nineteen and was now clear of the Reaping, though that didn't keep him for fearing for his younger brothers' lives.

Charles sighed. "Twenty."

Hank bit his lip, obviously trying to be strong. It didn't help that behind his large glasses, his blue eyes shone with anxiety, which Charles could see, even as his brother looked away.

"I wish you would let me enter more," Hank muttered.

"Forget it," Charles said wearily. It was an argument they had all had countless of times, but in the end, only Charles was allowed to take out tesserae. It helped that he was a telepath and could influence his brothers' decisions, something he didn't do lightly.

"I'm smart!" Hank protested. "I could outsmart anyone in the arena."

It was true—Hank's mutation was that he was a genius. His snares were proof enough of that. Not for the first time, Charles wished that they lived in a different world, where Hank's intelligence could be appreciated, not hunted down.

He resisted the urge to growl. "I know that, Hank. But the fact is, you shouldn't have to be involved in their twisted Games."

"Neither should you," Hank muttered. "Just because you can read people's minds doesn't mean you're dangerous."

The words brought a soft smile to Charles' face and he ruffled Hank's carefully styled hair to show his appreciation for his brother's words. Not everyone felt that way about Charles' gift—even among mutants, telepaths were feared.

The younger mutant let out a huff of annoyance. "We should be getting back," he said. "The Reaping is supposed to start at midday and we need to get to the Hobb before it closes."

Charles could still feel the frustration and fear flooding off Hank in waves, but the younger mutant was quiet.

The telepath rested a gentle hand on Hank's shoulder and squeezed lightly, letting his appreciation be known.

They set off without another word.

* * *

The Hobb was always an interesting place to visit. As the main, undercover trading post for most of District 12, it was always alive with activity and people.

Charles remembered his first time here. It had been right after his father died and he had been desperate for money and for food. He hadn't had much to trade—a couple of half-starved squirrels and some ancient clothes that had once been his father's—but the people there had taken him in as one of their own.

Hank had started coming with Charles to the Hobb once he was old enough to hunt. He too had been fascinated by everyone there, and they had, in turn, accepted him as well.

The Hobb was quieter today. Several of the people who were regulars were scared off by the arrival of the Peacekeepers. It didn't matter if most of the regulars _were_ Peacekeepers.

Charles didn't mind—it meant less people's thoughts and emotions to encroach on his carefully placed shields.

Hank and Charles separated once they entered the building. Hank had a list of things he wanted to get before the Reaping and Charles found that he always got better deals when he was alone.

Charles headed over to Greasy Sae, an aging woman who was always in search of a good, fresh-caught bird or two.

She offered him a grim sort of smile as he approached, showing off the fact that her two front teeth were missing. Charles smiled slightly in response.

"You got lucky, Xavier," she told him. "I was just about to close for the day."

Indeed, most of the people had already closed up their shops and left for the day to get their families ready for the Reaping.

Charles gave her a one-shouldered shrug in thanks as he held up the string of dead woodland creatures.

"At least I bring things to trade," he said.

Greasy Sae let out a booming laugh. "That you do, m'boy," she said. "That you do."

It took them about ten minutes to settle on an offer that satisfied both parties. In return for two squirrels, a duck, and a rabbit, Charles got some butter, oil, and a precious book of matches.

"May the odds be in your favor today, boy," Greasy Sae said as Charles turned to leave. "There are rumors floating about that this year's Games are going to be worse than normal."

It was the same thing said every year, but it never failed to send shivers down Charles' spine.

He thanked Greasy Sae for the trade and for the warning, before saying a hasty good-bye and leaving.

Hank was waiting for him by the entrance, carrying a book and a small parcel. When Charles asked what it was, Hank merely shook his head.

"You'll find out later," he said.

Charles sighed, opting not to pick the answer out of his younger brother's head. "All right," he said. "C'mon, let's go get ready for the Reaping."

* * *

Alex was already waiting for them when Charles and Hank arrived at the small, two-bedroom house a few minutes later. His pinched look of anxiety instantly faded.

"It's about time you two showed up," he growled.

Hank muttered an apology as he dumped his hunting bag on the table and headed for his room. Charles merely shook his head.

"It's not the end of the world, Alex," he chastised. "And Hank's more than a little nervous about what's happening today. Lay off."

Alex ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair and sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just…with the Peacekeepers and all…"

"Yeah," Charles murmured. "I get it."

And he did. It was the same way he felt every time his older adopted brother went into the mines with the threat that he would never return.

It was worse today, though, with the added bonus that this could very well be the last time they ever saw each other.

Charles shoved that thought out of his head.

"I should go get ready," he said, setting his bag down next to Hank's.

Alex's anxiety was back.

"Charles…" he began, but trailed off.

The younger mutant nodded once, not needing to be a telepath to know what Alex was going to say.

"I'll make sure he doesn't go," he said.

"I'm more worried about you," Alex said softly.

Although Alex was the oldest in their little family, it was Charles who was the head of it. He had managed to keep them alive and mostly well, pretty much single-handedly. Alex did what he could, but they both knew that without Charles, neither he nor Hank had much chance of surviving.

Charles shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said. "Don't worry about me."

He hoped if he said those words enough time, then he would start to believe them, too.

* * *

The air of solemnity nearly suffocated Charles as he followed the large crowd of people to the square. It had been like this every Reaping without fail, but Charles doubted it was something he would ever get used to. For the past seventeen years, he had been forced to feel and hear everyone's thoughts as they went through the horror of losing yet another pair of children from their district, knowing that one, if not both, would never return.

A soft hand gripped his, reminding Charles that he wasn't completely alone in all of this. He turned, a soft, somewhat pained smile gracing his face as his eyes met Hank's.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his blue eyes wide with concern.

Charles nodded once. "I'm fine."

He looked disbelieving—for he alone knew just how much this event affected him—but didn't say anything. There was nothing he _could_ say. The Reaping and the Games themselves were something that couldn't be helped, no matter the emotional backlash.

They had reached the square. Charles didn't even need to have his eyes open to know this—the level of anxiety and fear skyrocketed as the dozens of children aged twelve to eighteen were organized into semi-orderly rows.

Beside him, Charles could feel Hank's unease pouring off of him, no matter how much he had tried to get a handle on it. Charles didn't need to be a telepath to read it—he was his adopted brother, after all, and he knew Hank better than anyone else.

Ignoring the protests of the Peacekeepers and the other children attempting to get into position, Charles stopped walking and crouched down beside Hank.

"Listen to me," he said softly, drawing her close to him. "Your name's only in there twice. There's no way you're going to be picked."

"But what about you?" Hank whispered, tears shining in his eyes. "Your name is in there twenty times, Charles."

"Don't worry about me," he said firmly. "I'll be fine."

Hank shook his head. "You're a liar, Charles Xavier."

Charles gave her a slight smile. "I've never lied to you, Hank McCoy."

A tear slid down his slim face, reminding Charles forcefully of the fact that no matter how grown-up he behaved, Hank was only fourteen years old.

_This isn't fair,_ he thought, not for the first time.

"I don't want to lose you," Hank murmured.

Charles hugged him tightly. "You're not going to lose me, Hank," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

He prayed to whatever god that might be listening that he was right, that both of them would be saved in this reaping. They were the only family they had. Charles' father had died from a mine explosion after Charles was born, his mother had drank herself to death six years later. Hank's family abandoned him when he was two, when they realized they had too many mouths to feed. Charles had found him in a drainage ditch when he was seven and they had been together ever since.

Hank took a deep, shaking breath and pulled away from him, wiping his tears away on the hem of his shirt. Charles longed to just take his hand and run for the woods, to get the hell out of here before anything bad could happen to them, but he knew it was futile. Not only because there were hundreds of Peacekeepers around, but because there was nowhere for them to run.

Charles and Hank were separated by the Peacekeepers. Charles was sent to stand with the other boys his age while Hank was sent near the front to stand with the rest of the fourteen-year-old boys.

The square, which was generally an empty, desolate place that people avoided like the plague, was crammed with the entire population of the district. Large screens were hung from the buildings, and a banner was strung up over the Justice Building welcoming everybody to the Reaping.

A stage had been set up directly in front of the Justice Building. On it stood a microphone and a table with two glass jars. Charles knew that the jars held the names of the children who would be picked to go to the Games. The one on the left held twenty slips of paper with his name on them.

A short, pink woman stood behind the microphone. Everything about her, from her excessively curly wig to her ridiculous shoes, was pink. It contrasted sharply with the drab, gray and white tones everyone else was wearing.

But it wasn't just the outfit that made her stand out to Charles—it was her mind. Whereas everyone else's was bleak and frightened, hers alone was excited, manic almost. Clearly, she enjoyed this horrible spectacle.

Her name was Effie Trinket. She was in charge of the Reaping, and looking after the tributes once they had been picked.

There was a gentle tap on the microphone and immediately, the entire crowd fell silent. The anxiety level doubled and Charles could barely breathe under the sheer weight of it.

"Welcome, welcome, to the 74th Mutant Games!" Effie crowed. "May the odds be ever in your favor!"

She stood there awkwardly, until she realized no one was going to clap.

"We shall start with a short video that came all the way to you from the Capitol!" she said.

The video began. It was the usual story—the humans and mutants were at war over half a century ago, nearly destroying the entire planet. The humans were victorious, thanks to a couple of well placed biological bombs that threatened to erase the entire mutant population while preserving the human one. As punishment for their uprising, the mutants were separated to twelve districts. Every year, the districts were forced to offer up one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen to fight to the death in a televised show called The Mutant Games. There would be one winner, and that winner would bring a year's worth of food and other supplies home with them.

It was despicable. Unfortunately, as a telepath, Charles was forced to enter into the Reaping, which was the way the 'tributes' were decided. Hank, as a genetically-enhanced genius, was forced to enter, too. The human children, forced to live out here in the districts to help keep the peace, were allowed to enter if they chose.

None of them did.

Effie was smiling as the video completed.

"Isn't that just marvelous?" she asked. Ignoring the stony faced replies, she added, "That gives me chills every single time."

When there was no response, Effie sighed.

"Right. Shall we get on with it then?"

She was still smiling. It disgusted Charles, more than the Games themselves. It was because of people like her that the Games were so successful.

Effie was speaking again.

"Ladies first!"

She reached into the jar and the anxiety in the square increased by tenfold. Charles' breath caught as he attempted—unsuccessfully—to shield himself from it.

Effie pulled out a piece of paper.

"Our first tribute from District 12 is…" she paused for dramatic effect. "Katherine Pryde!"

A girl around Charles' age and height stepped forward, looking anxious. She wore a simple blue dress and fancy black shoes—like everyone else, she had been forced to dress up for this. Her long, light brown hair was swept back into a carefully, coiled braid that showed off her round face and dark brown eyes.

The square was silent as she walked forward. Only Effie was smiling.

Charles had only talked to Katherine once, a few years before, when he had been trading a couple of squirrels with her mother for thread. She was a nice enough girl, if unusually chatty for someone in District 12. Charles vaguely remembered her telling him about her life story, though he had forgotten most of it over the years.

She climbed up on stage, giving Effie a weak smile. The older woman responded with a broad grin that sent shivers down Charles' spine.

"Welcome, welcome," she said. Turning back to the crowd, she added, "How about a round of applause for our first tribute?"

There was a small smattering of clapping that died quickly. No one was too thrilled about any of the children going to the Games.

Effie let out a weary sigh, clearly annoyed with having the least interesting district of all time.

"And now," she announced. "For our boy tribute."

Charles was almost flattened by the sudden spike in apprehension in the square, which heightened his own. He gritted his teeth together.

Effie's hand reached into the bowl and pulled out a single piece of paper.

"Our second tribute from District 12 is…"

_Breathe,_ Charles reminded himself.

"Hank McCoy!"

_No!_

He was barely aware of the fact that he had screamed that out loud as Hank emerged from the throng of fourteen year olds.

"Hank!" Charles yelled, pushing the other boys out of his way.

Hank turned, his blue eyes wide with fear.

"Charles!" he called back. He broke into a run, meeting Charles halfway as the other boys finally moved out of the way.

Peacekeepers swarmed them, pulling them apart. Hank let out another yell and struggled against the people holding him.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

The words were out of Charles' mouth before he had the chance to really think about them.

Everyone turned to stare at him. Effie's mouth was hanging open.

Hank stared at him with wide, horrified eyes. Somewhere behind him, Charles could feel Alex's terror.

Charles swallowed hard and once more repeated himself.

"I volunteer as tribute."


	2. Nothing to Remember

_See chapter 1 for disclaimer._

_Well. Here's chapter 2! I would like to thank you all for your kind words! I'm glad you enjoyed chapter 1 and I hope you like chapter 2 just as much._

_A quick note: Katherine Pryde = Kitty Pryde. I'll bring that out in the next chapter or the one after that, but I just thought you should know. So all of you asking for Shadowcat… she's here! I promise! As for the rest of them, you'll just have to wait and see. : ). _

_We will be seeing a glimpse or two of Erik in the next chapter… : ). _

_One last thing, that I put as a blanket statement on all of my stories: Don't assume _anything. _And I mean anything… especially concerning the whole District 11 characters thing. _

_And on that note, enjoy the chapter! Reviews are always welcome! : ). _

**The Mutant Games**

**Chapter 2: Nothing to Remember **

Effie was the first to recover.

"Well, then," she said, her voice shaken. "Come forward."

Hank was shaking violently, desperately trying to catch Charles' eye. The telepath felt as though his heart was breaking as he looked away.

"Charles!" Hank cried once more. "Don't do this!"

Alex was suddenly there, pulling the younger boy away. For a moment, Charles and Alex met gazes.

_I'm sorry,_ Charles thought, knowing he would be heard.

The older mutant shook his head slightly. They both knew this was the only way to keep Hank safe.

Charles took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He forced his face blank, hoping that none of his horror showed as he walked toward the stage.

Effie was waiting for him, looking like a giant pink blur at the top of the stairs. She beckoned to him with a sickly sweet smile on her face.

The crowd below was silent, still in shock over what happened. Charles didn't blame him—he, too, couldn't believe what he had just done.

No one in District 12 had ever volunteered before. It was an unspoken rule that if you were chosen, you were left to your fate. The District would mourn you, but it couldn't sacrifice any more than it had to.

But Charles couldn't stand by and allow Hank to be thrown to the slaughter. Hank was innocent. To stand by and let him be killed in the Games when Charles could have prevented it… that would have made Charles little better than the Capitol he despised.

Charles walked to stand beside Katherine, who offered him a grim smile. He didn't return it.

"What's your name?" Effie asked, taking her place in between the two tributes.

"Charles," he replied in a thankfully strong voice. "Charles Xavier."

"Welcome, Charles!" Effie crowed. To the crowd, she added, "How about a nice, warm round of applause for District 12's first ever volunteer?"

Silence.

It was the boldest form of dissent the District could show. There weren't enough of them and too many of the Peacekeepers to start a fight. But silence… silence showed the District didn't approve. They disagreed. They didn't condone what was going on.

Charles looked out, feeling simultaneously shocked and honored at the sight that greeted him.

Every single person in the square raised three fingers to their lips and then to Charles. It was an old salute, one that showed the utmost respect.

And it was being directed toward _him_. He could hardly believe it.

Effie, for once, had absolutely nothing to say. She could only stare at the crowd in astonishment.

A loud grunt sounded to Charles' left. He turned in time to see District 12's one and only Mutant Games' winner, Haymitch Abernathy, go tumbling off the stage.

Haymitch was a perpetual drunk, so this show of massive disgrace was to no one's surprise. But Charles couldn't help but feel slightly thankful; for one, it moved the cameras off of him and the District's salute and on to something more comedic.

Charles smiled slightly as the man stumbled to his feet, shouting obscene things at the Capitol's cameramen.

Haymitch was quickly escorted out of sight by two burly looking Peacekeepers. Effie let out an irritated sigh, clearly not happy with the way her Reaping was interrupted.

She turned to Katherine and Charles.

"Shake hands," she ordered in a clipped voice.

Charles looked at Katherine, reading his own anxiety and fears in her eyes. For a brief moment, he felt encouraged by this, knowing that he wouldn't have to go through this entirely alone.

He held out his hand, smiling slightly. Katherine was quick to return it, taking his hand in her own. Her grip was tentative and short.

They let go of each other quickly.

Effie nodded to the two Peacekeepers behind them.

Charles knew that this was it. This was the point of no return. The moment he left this stage, he would be forever a piece in the Capitol's games.

He glanced out to the crowd below, searching for Hank and Alex.

One of the Peacekeepers took hold of Charles' arm, leading him into the Justice Building. The doors closed ominously behind them.

* * *

Charles was escorted to a small, windowless room, where he would be allowed to say his good-byes to his family.

The room was made of wooden panels and a soft, plush carpet, more luxurious than anything Charles had ever had in his entire life. It was ironic, really, that he was being treated like such royalty during what could very well be his last few weeks alive.

The door closed behind the Peacekeeper, momentarily leaving Charles alone. Barley a minute after the Peacekeeper left, the door burst open, revealing a distraught looking Hank and a stunned looking Alex.

"Hank has something he wants to give you," Alex said in a stiff voice. He was obviously trying to keep a hold on his emotions for Hank, but Charles could see through the façade. Alex was scared, maybe more so than Charles was.

Charles looked from Alex to Hank, who was clutching something tightly in one hand.

"What is it, Hank?" Charles asked.

The younger mutant held out his hand, slowly unfurling his fingers. It was a pin, a simple silver X with a circle surrounding it, but it was far more than Charles had expected.

"It's for luck," Hank mumbled. "You'll wear it, won't you?"

Charles nodded. "Of course," he replied.

It was quiet for a moment. Then, Hank let out a soft cry, before tackling Charles into a fierce hug. Charles returned it just as hard, closing his eyes against the tears that stung them.

"It's going to be okay, Hank," he murmured. "It's going to be all right. I promise."

Hank shook his head and buried his face deeper into Charles' shoulder.

"You have to win, Charles," he whispered, so softly that Charles could barely hear him. "You have to win."

Charles felt as though his heart was breaking as he gently pulled himself out of Hank's grip.

"I will," he promised with a sinking heart. "I will."

It would be next to impossible. There were twenty-four mutants—most more powerful than Charles could ever dream of being—and only one winner. The odds weren't in his favor.

But from the looks on Alex and Hank's faces, Charles knew he would have to try. He couldn't let them watch him die out there.

Alex looked as though he were about to say something, but the door opened behind him. It was a Peacekeeper, announcing that the two minutes of good-byes were up.

Hank gave Charles another hug, before turning quickly. Charles didn't miss his younger adopted brother's tears as he disappeared through the door.

"Look after him," Charles told Alex.

The older mutant nodded solemnly. "Look after yourself, Charles," he whispered, clapping his hand on the telepath's shoulder. "And try to come back to us."

Before Charles had the chance to say anything, Alex was gone.

He was alone.

* * *

Barely twenty minutes later, Charles was escorted from the Justice Building to an awaiting car that would take him to the train station. Katherine, Effie, and Haymitch met him there.

Under any other circumstances, Charles would have been fascinated with the car ride, and later, the train that was waiting at the station. Cars and passenger trains were rare in District 12, for they cost far more than what anyone in the District could afford.

_I'm like a lamb being prepared for slaughter,_ Charles thought darkly as the car pulled to a stop outside of the train station.

Normally, on Reaping Day, the train station would be crowded with people looking for one last glimpse of the tributes before they went off to the Capitol. Today, however, there was no one there.

It was another form of rebellion, one Charles prayed would go unpunished.

Effie was chattering away excitedly about the train and how he and Katherine were in for a treat. Charles barely heard her as he followed her listlessly up the steps to the train. All he could think about was Hank's frightened face and Alex's solemn good-bye gesture.

He wished, not for the last time, that none of this had happened, that he, Alex, and Hank had ran for it.

But it was too late. And wishing would get him nowhere.

* * *

Effie led the way through the train car. Charles couldn't help but stare at the sheer _expense_ of the world around him.

The glittering, gold benches were lined with plush, red velvet cushions. There was a large, mahogany table that stretched between the two benches, gleaming in the soft, overhead light. The table held gold platters that were filled with every sort of food imaginable, and goblets with different colored liquids.

Charles' jaw dropped. Any one of those plates could have fed his family for a month.

Beside him, Katherine was having the same reaction. She turned to Effie.

"This isn't all for us, is it?" she asked, her brown eyes wide.

"Of course it is," Effie said. "Why wouldn't it be?"

_Because neither of us have never been fed this well,_ Charles didn't say.

Haymitch muttered something about Seam brats, before pushing passed Charles to walk over to the table. He picked up one of the goblets and sniffed it. Clearly satisfied with his decision, he then proceeded to disappear through the door on the other side of the train car.

Effie let out a disbelieving sigh.

"That's just rude," she declared. Turning to Katherine and Charles, she added, "This is the dining car. You'll have all of your meals onboard the train here. We will meet here tomorrow to discuss what you're to expect when we arrive at the Capitol."

Charles nodded numbly, still in shock over the enormity of what all was happening.

Effie sighed again. "If you're hungry, go ahead and eat. If not, I'll show you to your rooms."

Despite the fact that all he had barely eaten anything that day, Charles wasn't hungry at all. However, his years of going hungry taught him not to waste the food that was in front of him, so it was with a knotted stomach that he sat down across the table from Katherine and picked at some of the food.

There was everything he could have dreamed of—and more. Large, steaming pots of soup and rice; large platters filled with every sort of game imaginable, with separate sauces for each; a large basket filled with golden rolls that made Charles' mouth water just looking at them, complete with a dish of butter; and large cakes with beautiful garnish that were never seen in District 12 outside of the baker's window.

Hank would have loved all of this.

It physically hurt to think that and know that it was true. Charles' younger adopted brother would have been chattering away excitedly about what exactly each meal was, how it was prepared, what the best way to eat it was… He would have read it in one of the countless books he had memorized over the past seven years.

Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing the image of Hank's terrified face out of his mind. Now was not the time to be focusing on that. There would be time for that later, when he was out from underneath Effie's watchful eye and Katherine's curious stares.

The food itself was just as delicious as it looked, but even still, Charles could barely manage a few bites of the rich cuisine before he forced his plate away.

Katherine did the same, looking increasingly more anxious with each passing second. A part of Charles longed to say something to take away that anxiety, but what could he say? That it was going to be okay? They both knew that would be a bold face lie. One or both of them would be dead within the month. There was nothing okay about that.

Effie seemed to sense their feelings, for she let out a weary sigh.

"All right, you two," she said, rising to her feet. She had been sitting in one of the padded arm chairs a few feet away. "Time for bed. Maybe in the morning you'll be less gloomy."

Charles was half-tempted to snap back at her, tell her that she should try being a glorified slaughter animal, but found that he couldn't. As angry as he was about all of this, there would be no use taking it out on Effie. She was just another piece in the Game, much like he was. Granted, she wouldn't actually be _in_ the Game, and she would live to see another year, but that didn't make her no less of a pawn.

Katherine hovered close beside Charles as Effie led the way to the sleeping car. Without thinking, Charles took her hand in his, dropping it quickly once he realized what he had done.

"Sorry," he murmured.

She shook her head, taking his hand again.

"It's okay," she whispered back. "I don't want—I—I don't like being alone."

She reminded him so much of Hank in that moment that Charles was forced to look away. He didn't, however, let go of her hand until they reached her room for the night.

Katherine disappeared behind a sliding door, leaving Effie and Charles alone.

"Right," Effie said. "This way. You must be exhausted. It's been a busy day."

Charles grunted in affirmation, breathing a mental sigh of relief as Effie stopped outside of the next door.

"Here we are!" she announced, though her cheery tone was sounding forced. "I'll see you in the morning, in the dining car."

As if he had forgotten.

Still, he bid her farewell with what he hoped was a semi-pleasant smile on his face, before retreating into the solidarity of his room.

He was alone at last.

Somehow, that idea brought less comfort than he first thought.

_I'm alone_, he realized. _From here on out, I'm _alone.

It would be the first time he was truly alone since his parents died.

There was no help for him anymore, no friendly faces to look forward to seeing in the morning… no one, except for a girl he barely knew and a crowd eagerly awaiting his death.

"This was a bad idea," he whispered.

But he couldn't bring himself to regret it, knowing that if he hadn't volunteered, Hank would be here in his place.

With that last, somber thought, Charles pulled off his long-sleeve dress shirt and tossed it to the ground, not caring where it landed. He would never have need of it again.

_I could die,_ he realized. _I probably _will_ die._

A tear slid down his face and landed on the carpeted floor below.

Charles swallowed heavily and took a deep breath to calm himself. He couldn't afford to think like that. Not if he wanted to ever see his family again.

With that thought, Charles climbed onto the waiting bed and crawled under the sheets. A few minutes later, despite the hundreds of thoughts racing through his mind, he was fast asleep.


	3. Safe and Sound

_See chapter 1 for disclaimer._

_Well, here's chapter 3! I apologize for waiting so long to update it. I took a month long hiatus from writing (life got in the way and all) and then when I got back to writing, I just couldn't figure out where I wanted this chapter to go. As a result… this chapter goes everywhere, which is why it's ten pages long. Honestly, I could probably have gone on for another five, but I decided I needed to cut it down here, before it got into the fifteen-page long area. _

_Again, sorry for the delay! I hope to have the next chapter up considerably sooner._

_Thank you for all of your wonderful reviews! I hope my length between updates hasn't discouraged you from reading!_

_Kudos to anyone who can catch Erik's appearance! (And I hope you all love his opening ceremony costume… I know I had a field day imagining him wearing that…)_

_Hope you all enjoy this rather lengthy chapter!_

**The Mutant Games**

**Chapter 3: Safe and Sound**

The next morning came all too early for Charles' liking. His sleep had been fitful, plagued by nightmares of what was to come. In one particularly horrible dream, Charles had been plunged onto a volcanic landscape and been forced to fight against a boy five times his size while nearby, a river of lava came spilling toward him.

A knock on the door signaled that it was time for Charles to actually get out of bed. He did so with a weary sigh, running a hand over his face.

He picked up his shirt from the night before and pulled it on, not caring how rumpled he looked, before heading out the door.

Katherine and Effie were already eating breakfast in the dining car when Charles walked in. Haymitch was suspiciously absent, though from the brief glimpse Charles had gotten from the other man the other day, the young telepath could hardly say he was surprised. Haymitch struck him as someone who preferred to be alone.

Katherine looked up from her rather large breakfast and smiled slightly. It was impossible to miss the fear that radiated off her in strong waves.

Charles returned the gesture half-heartedly as he took a seat across from her. He really didn't want to go through with making friends with her—it would only make it worse for both of them when it came time to enter the arena.

Effie began chattering away about proper etiquette and sponsors and whatnot as Charles surveyed the breakfast trolley. Like the day before, there was far too much food for only four occupants, which disgusted him to no end. How could the Capitol afford to waste so much while Charles had to fight tooth and nail to save his family from starvation?

He forced away the dark thought and settled on having a couple of pieces of buttered toast. It was by far the two most delicious pieces of bread the young telepath had ever eaten.

It was only when Effie fell silent and stared at him that Charles realized he had been tuning her out. He mentally sighed and risked a swift glimpse into her mind. There was nothing rather important—most of it was how to look 'proper' in the Capitol—but she _had _asked him if he had an questions.

He shook his head and continued eating his toast.

The older woman was about to launch into what was undoubtedly another tirade about politeness—Charles had counted three of them between the time it took for him to sit down and eat a piece of toast—when the door to the dining car opened and Haymitch stumbled in.

He was dressed haphazardly in a pair of sweatpants and a torn tank top. His feet were bare and in his right hand, he carried an empty glass of scotch.

Disgust once more welled up in Charles and he looked away before he said anything he would later regret.

Katherine, on the other hand, didn't seem to have such inhibitions.

"Do you ever quit drinking?" she demanded.

Effie let out a sharp gasp and Charles glanced between Katherine and Haymitch warily. The latter turned toward her, an eyebrow raised in amused disdain.

"Do you ever quit with your annoying voice?" Haymitch retorted.

Katherine's face went blank. Charles knew how she was about to react heartbeats before she thrust the knife at Haymitch's hand. The telepath reached out and stopped her a split second before the weapon reached its intended target. The girl barely had time to voice a protest before Charles had shoved Haymitch up against a wall. The bottle of alcohol went shattering to the floor.

"Stop!" Effie screeched. "This is barbaric!"

Silence.

Charles took a deep breath and let Haymitch go. He had surprised even himself with his outburst, but he couldn't help but feel a little justified. Being drunk all of the time wasn't going to help anyone.

Haymitch stared at Charles and Katherine with astonishment.

"Is it possible," he slurred, "that I actually got a pair of fighters this year?"

Effie hissed her dissatisfaction and stalked out of the dining car. Clearly, their 'barbaric' display put her off her appetite.

Haymitch took her now empty seat. He looked smugly satisfied as he studied Charles and Katherine closely.

Charles tensed as the older man reached forward, relaxing ever so slightly as he grabbed a biscuit and the jam.

"Interesting," Haymitch murmured. "Very interesting."

"What?" Katherine demanded, obviously annoyed.

The older man shook his head.

"It's been _years_ since District 12 has had a pair of fighters," he said. "It should make the Games very interesting this year."

Charles yearned to ask who actually cared if the Games were interesting—they were a horrific spectacle at the best of times—but he kept his mouth shut.

Haymitch was still studying them intently. Katherine let out a huge sigh.

"Are you going to help us or eat us?"

A grin settled on to Haymitch's face. "I think I might just help you."

(0)

It turned out Haymitch's advice wasn't all that complicated.

"If you want to stay alive, then you're going to want sponsors," he explained. "Sponsors can provide you with help in the arena. Anything from medicine to a single match."

Charles knew most of this already, having spent his entire life watching the Games. Still, he wasn't about to knock the teachings of a survivor of the arena. Any little bit would help.

"How do we get sponsors?" Katherine wanted to know.

"You get people to like you," Haymitch replied. A twisted smirk crossed his face. "You two both need a little more work in that department."

Katherine bristled and opened her mouth to argue, but Charles cut across her.

"And how do we do that?"

He already knew the answer—it was plain in Haymitch's mind—and didn't like it. Charles had never been one to try to impress anyone. In his opinion, it was a waste of time. Why did it matter if anyone liked you or not when they wouldn't lift so much as a finger to help you?

"You be _charming_," Haymitch said. With a pointed, frosty look at Katherine, he added, "Well, for some people, charming works. Others…"

At Katherine's glare, he trailed off, though Charles highly doubted it was because the older man was scared of her.

Charles let out a weary sigh and walked over to the window. A shocking sight met his eyes.

They had been travelling underground for the better part of an hour now, so he hadn't expected the sudden, brilliant display of the Capitol. The skyline was made entirely of glass, reflecting in dazzling patterns on the water front.

"Come look!" he urged Katherine, unable to entirely hide the awe in his voice.

She cast a reluctant last glance toward Haymitch, before joining Charles by the window. The young telepath could feel her admiration as they gazed at the sparkling city.

"It's beautiful," Katherine murmured.

Charles murmured his agreement.

All too soon, the train rounded a corner and the city vanished. Charles and Katherine were once more plunged into darkness as it went through a tunnel.

They had arrived at the train station.

Charles wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting when the train pulled into the station, but a large adoring crowd, all screaming with excitement hadn't been one of them.

He plastered a smile on his face, waving back at the hundreds of people packed into the train station, while trying to swallow back the nausea he felt as his mind came into contact with every last person present.

The mass crowd gave Charles a sharp wake up call to the reality of what was happening. All morning, he had somehow managed to not think about why he was here. But now, as he waited beside Katherine to get off the train, he was forcefully reminded that this could very well be one of the last places he'd ever be.

It was sickening, that so many people had shown up to watch as the two tributes were led off the train like lambs to the slaughter. How could these people just sit around and watch _children_ die?

Charles' smile vanished from his face at the thought, and he turned away from the window. His eyes found Haymitch. The older man's face was a study in compassion—he clearly understood what was going through Charles' mind.

The train jolted to a stop and Charles looked away.

It was time.

(0)

Charles was led to a small, windowless room and was told to sit on the table. From watching the Games in the past, the young telepath knew that this was where he would meet his stylist. His stylist would get him ready for not only the opening ceremonies later that night, but would also be in charge of all of the outfits Charles would wear for what would probably be the remainder of his life.

Charles let out a sigh, forcing those particularly dark thoughts out of his mind. Part of him wondered what his outfit would be for the opening ceremonies. It was the stylist's job to capture the essence of each district. Being from District 12, which mined coal, that generally meant all tributes were dressed in highly unflattering coal mining uniforms. Every now and then, when a stylist was feeling particularly attention starved, he or she would have the audacity to make the tribute go stark naked, painted black.

The young telepath hoped that that would not be the case this year.

The door to the room burst open and in piled three people. Charles assumed this was his prep team, the people would clean him up and make him presentable for his stylist.

There were two women and one man. One of the women looked relatively normal, save for her aqua green hair and eye lashes. She was dressed in a skintight black dress and bright gold boots. The other woman, however, had purple skin and vivid pink hair. Her dress was made entirely of feathers, and an outlandish orange color, with gaudy green jewels sewn into it. The man had silver skin and jet black hair. His eyes were strangely a bright pink color, which gave him the appearance of a weasel. The white fur coat he was wearing did little to distract from this description, either.

The prep team quickly introduced themselves. The first woman was Venia, the other Octavia. The man's name was Flavius.

"We're here to get you ready for Cinna," Flavius said, speaking quickly.

"You're very fortunate to be here!" Octavia exclaimed. "You'll have the time of your life!"

"I couldn't believe what you did for your brother," Venia said, pressing her hand over her heart. "That was just so…_inspiring_."

Charles tensed. It wasn't supposed to have been inspiring. He had been trying to right the injustice of the Games, not encourage them.

The prep team didn't notice his agitation. Flavius set to work preparing something in a bowl and the two women started chattering away about skin creams and eyebrows. It was in such a ridiculous way that Charles smiled slightly despite himself. Their simple minds were a hum of excitement and anxiety. This, clearly, was their first job, and they couldn't wait to get started. Charles found himself unexpectedly liking these people before he really got to know them, if only because he couldn't hate people who were so obviously not that intelligent.

They quickly set to work stripping Charles of his clothes.

Venia found the pin Hank had given him, tucked into the pocket of his pants.

"Ooh, is this your symbol of your district?" she asked.

Charles stared at her blankly, momentarily not understanding the question. He then remembered from Games past that tributes were allowed a small token from their districts.

He nodded.

"Yes."

The one word hurt more than Charles had thought possible, for it brought up the heart breaking last encounter he had had with Hank.

Charles quickly shoved that thought out of his head and instead focused on the mindless words of his prep team.

"Oh how I wish we could die his skin! He would look so pretty in pale green!" Octavia moaned.

Charles froze—_what?_

Luckily, Flavius was already shaking his head, albeit mournfully.

"Cinna wants him as normal as possible," he said with a sigh. "Same goes for the girl. We're only to do the basics."

Venia clicked her tongue as she studied Charles' hands, muttering about the collection of scars and calluses he had built up over the years.

"These simply won't do," she declared. "We need to do a skin regeneration on his hands. They're horrible!"

"Cinna said only the basics," Flavius repeated, looking down at Charles with a look of mournful disdain. He clearly thought that all of this was Charles' fault, as though the young telepath had had some sort of influence over the mysterious Cinna.

Charles breathed a mental sigh of relief. He was quite proud of his hands, for they were a reminder of everything he had been through and everything he could do. He wouldn't trade the scars and calluses for anything in the world.

The prep team muttered amongst themselves for a few moments, before returning to work. Charles wasn't exactly sure what all they were doing, save for dunking him into all sorts of foul smelling liquids, but he did know that he was beginning to grow weary of all of the attention.

Octavia, who was combing Charles' hair, attempted to draw him into a conversation.

"So, what's your mutation?"

It was an honest question, one that was probably asked by all of the prep teams for all of the districts. After all, these were the _Mutant_ Games.

Still, Charles was reluctant to answer. Given how his ability was treated around others of his kind, he really didn't want to face the reactions of these simple-minded humans for being able to read their minds or sense their moods.

Luckily, he was saved from having to answer. The door opened once more, revealing a young man, barely an inch taller than Charles. His skin was a light olive color, his hair dark with flecks of gold. He was dressed relatively simple for a Capitol citizen, wearing only a pair of black plants and a long-sleeved gold shirt with black jewels on it. He had a kind enough face, which was adorned by one simple gold hoop in his right ear.

This had to be Cinna.

His mind, surprisingly, was calm and collected, betraying all of the assumptions Charles had drawn about him from the prep team. There was an air of intelligence about him, too, that made Charles take a legitimate liking to him.

That, and the first thing the man did was to dismiss the prep team.

The trio disappeared in a burst of excited energy. Charles immediately felt exhausted.

Cinna seemed to sense that, for he gave Charles a sympathetic smile.

"They're good at what they do, but they are a little high maintenance," he said.

Charles smiled slightly and nodded his agreement.

The stylist walked over to the telepath and offered his hand.

"I'm Cinna," he said. "I'm to be your stylist for the Games."

"Charles," the younger man replied. "And I know."

Cinna nodded.

"Do you know what my job here is?"

Charles shrugged. "You're here to treat me like a puppet. Dress me up in fancy clothes and such."

The stylist shook his head.

"I'm here to help you make an impression," he said. "So you can get sponsors and have a better chance of surviving in the arena. But I will not now, or will I ever treat you like a puppet."

Charles had nothing to say that, surprised at the conviction in the other man's voice.

Cinna continued with a sad smile.

"I would first like to tell you how sorry I am that you are here," he said. "And that what you did for your brother was a very brave thing to do."

Charles stared in shock.

Cinna smiled again.

"That wasn't what you were expecting, was it?"

The telepath shook his head.

"Everyone has been congratulating me," he murmured.

"I don't see the point in that," Cinna said, his face darkening minutely.

Charles longed to take a glance into the stylist's mind, to find out what exactly caused that look, but the telepath had already developed far too much respect for the older man to invade his privacy like that.

"Thank you," Charles said instead. "For not…"

He trailed off, but he knew that Cinna would understand.

They stared at each other for a few moments, before Cinna spoke again.

"Would you mind standing for me? I want to see the work the prep team has done," he explained.

Charles stood slowly, not enjoying the intense stare Cinna was giving him. The only time he stared at anything that intently was when he was hunting, and Charles did not appreciate the irony of the situation. It once more reminded him forcibly of why he was here.

Cinna let out a contented sigh.

"You may sit down," he said. "Now, you're probably wondering what I have in store for you."

Charles nodded. "In the past, we've been coal miners," he said.

"Yes, and it's no wonder that District 12 is the most laughed at district because of that," Cinna stated.

_Great,_ Charles thought. _That means I'll be going naked._

Cinna told Charles to wait for a moment and returned with a long, black garment bag.

"Unzip it," the stylist instructed.

Curiously, Charles took the bag and carefully unzipped it.

Inside was a black one piece made out of a shiny, reflective material.

Charles looked from the garment to Cinna in confusion.

"What is this?" he asked.

Cinna smiled mischievously. "One of my many inventions," he said. He reached over and took the one piece out of Charles' hands. "This is made of a special material that will allow me to add artificial fire to it."

"You're lighting me on fire?" Charles demanded incredulously.

"In a way, yes," Cinna said. "But don't worry, it's perfectly safe."

"You're lighting me on _fire_," Charles repeated.

This was so much worse than going naked. He'd take that over this any day.

Cinna studied Charles for a moment.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

A part of Charles instantly said no. The telepath hadn't truly trusted anyone outside of his own adopted family for years.

But then again, Cinna was different. Charles couldn't quite explain it, but there was something about the stylist that struck him as _different_ than all of the other Capitol people he had encountered.

Charles nodded once and looked away.

Cinna clapped a hand on his shoulder reassuringly.

"It will work out," he said. With a little more humor, he added, "And if it doesn't, you won't have to worry about the Games."

Right. Because _that_ was so reassuring.

(0)

Night was beginning to fall as Charles walked with Cinna over to the paddocks. For the opening ceremonies, the tributes would stand in carriages pulled by giant black horses, and be paraded around the central square of the Capitol. It would be the first chance for the tributes to get a good look at each other as well as show off for all of the Mutant Games fans.

Anxiety swept over Charles in thick, hot waves until he was almost drowning in it. What if Cinna's plan didn't work? What if this wasn't safe? He was going to catch on fire, in front of hundreds of thousands of people. He would be the one tribute to die before the Games even begun.

Katherine and her stylist, Portia, a young woman, were already waiting at the twelfth and final carriage along with Haymitch and Effie. Katherine was dressed in the same black one piece that Charles was, with her long, brown hair done artfully on the top of her head. She looked as nervous as Charles felt.

Cinna and Katherine's stylist separated from the group and started whispering. Haymitch looked at them disdainfully, before looking back at Charles and Katherine.

"Don't fall out of the carriage," he advised.

"Voice of experience?" Charles asked lightly, surprising both Haymitch and himself with the glib remark.

The older man let out a snort of laughter and shook his head. Effie sniffed righteously as Cinna and Portia returned to the group.

"All right," Cinna said. "It's time."

Charles and Katherine exchanged terrified glances as they climbed up into the carriage. Portia produced two, glowing torches and handed one to Cinna.

"Trust me," Cinna reminded Charles as he lowered the flickering torch to Charles' leg. "This will all work out."

The flame leapt from the torch to Charles' leg. The telepath tensed, expecting to feel a rush of heat and burning, but was delightfully surprised when there was none.

"It works!" Katherine exclaimed.

Cinna and Portia exchanged a knowing, yet slightly relieved glance.

Before anyone had the chance to say anything else, the signal for the ceremonies to start sounded. The horses started to move, and before Charles knew it, he was going through the tunnel that would lead to the main square.

"And announcing, District 12! And oh my, are they on _fire_?"

The voice of Claudius Templesmith filled Charles' ears moments before the sound of the crowd shrieking their excitement did.

Large view screens had been set up around the square. Charles saw for the first time what everyone was thrilled about.

The artificial fire danced all over Charles and Katherine, making them positively glow. Combined with the thick, dark make-up Portia and Cinna had applied, it was no wonder why everyone in the stands couldn't take their eyes off them. They looked _powerful_, as if they had managed to harness the power of fire and make it do their bidding.

All too soon, the parade came to a halt in the middle of the main square. A large podium had been set up. Behind it, stood President Shaw, a tall, striking figure dressed in an impeccable suit. His graying, brown hair was swept in a stylish manner away from his face, revealing cold, calculating brown eyes.

There was a hint of snobbish malice stemming from him, so strong, that even at nearly eight yards away, Charles could still feel it.

The cameramen had a hard time spending equal screen time with the President, the other tributes, and the District 12 tributes, for the sun had set entirely, and now it was all too easy to just stare at Charles and Katherine.

Still, there was one other district that captured the cameramen's attention. District 4, the coastal district, had some pretty interesting outfits. The girl was dressed in a skimpy top and a scaly green skirt, making her look like half woman and half fish.

The boy tribute was more impressive, dressed simply in a loin cloth. He was tall, and muscular, with light brown hair. In his hand he carried a glowing, golden trident.

The cameramen switched back to the President as Shaw held up his hand and the grandstands immediately went silent. He then began his speech.

"Welcome," he said, eliciting cheers and applause from the crowd. "Tributes, we welcome you. As we wish you happy Mutant Games. And may the odds be ever in your favor."

At that, the crowd went wild with cheers and applause.

Charles barely heard any of it, for at that moment, he accidentally got a glimpse into Shaw's mind.

What he found there was terrifying, to say the least.

Shaw was a mutant. A mutant, who condoned these hateful acts, who _encouraged _them, year after year.

A bolt of lightning hot pain shot through Charles' mind, and he gasped, losing contact with Shaw's mind. Someone had forced him out of the President's mind.

"Are you all right?" Katherine asked softly as the carriages began moving out of the square.

Charles blinked and looked back at her, his eyes wide with shock. He swallowed once and nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."

He looked away, not wanting to continue the conversation. He was still in horrified astonishment over what he had just discovered.

_How could this happen?_ he wondered.

Not soon enough, the carriages pulled up in front of the Training Center. This would be where the tributes lived and trained for a week before the Games began. For twenty-three of them, it would be the last place in civilization they ever saw.

Charles barely paused to wonder at the marvels of the building as he followed Katherine over to where Haymitch and Effie were waiting. His mind was still mulling over what had just happened and how someone had forced him out of President Shaw's mind.

They were joined by Cinna and Portia, who put out Katherine and Charles' suits. Effie gushed about how amazing the costumes had been and how they would be bringing in so many sponsors as a result.

Charles barely heard any of it as he followed the group into the building and into a gilded elevator. Each floor of the Training Center corresponded with the living quarters of the tributes from the Districts. Being from District 12, Charles and Katherine would have the penthouse at the very top.

The basement of the Training Center would be where the tributes would train for the Games, beginning the following morning.

The elevator opened once more, revealing the enormous, lavish penthouse. Charles didn't even glance at it as he followed the group through the hallway and into the main room. It was sumptuously decorated, of course, but the young telepath couldn't have cared less at that moment.

"Your rooms are through there," Effie announced, gesturing down another small hallway. "Go get some rest. We'll celebrate this success in the morning."

Charles was grateful for the excuse to be alone. Without another word, he headed toward his room.


	4. The Ruler and the Killer

_*Waves sheepishly*_

_Hey, everyone. Sorry for the long delay in updates. There was a lot of personal drama going on and I didn't have a whole lot of time to write._

_Thank you for all of your amazing support. If I haven't responded to your reviews, I am deeply sorry. It's not that I don't love you guys._

**The Mutant Games**

**Chapter 4: The Ruler and the Killer**

The sun seemed to rise earlier in the Capitol then it ever did in District 12. Then again, Charles reflected as he made his way down to the dining room of the penthouse, he had always slept better at home then he did here.

Feeling more exhausted than he had ever in his life, Charles took a seat at the elaborate dining table across from Katherine. Effie, Haymitch, and the stylists were surprisingly absent, but the young telepath wasn't about to complain.

Katherine smiled tiredly at him as he reached for a piece of yellow, crescent-shaped fruit.

His confusion at the weird looking fruit must of shown, for Katherine laughed slightly.

"I think it's called a banana," she offered as Charles inspected it carefully. "Portia told me they're grown in District 4."

Charles was about to reply when Effie and Haymitch entered the room. Effie was dressed in vivid purple, with a matching lilac wig, while Haymitch wore the same sweatpants and torn tank top he had been in yesterday.

"Good," Effie said, looking at them approvingly. "You found your clothes."

In truth, it hadn't exactly been difficult. The black pants and collared shirt with _12_ embroidered in red on the sleeves had been laid out at the foot of Charles' bed with a note that read _wear this_.

Haymitch picked up a small tea pot and poured the brown, steaming contents into a cup, before sitting down at the far end of the table. Even from four chairs down, Charles could still smell the slightly bitter aroma drifting from the cup.

"Today, you begin training," the older man said.

With thoughts of President Shaw's true identity buzzing around Charles' head late into the night prior, he hadn't even had time to think about what today would bring.

His stomach immediately dropped into his feet as Haymitch continued.

"Now, usually, this is where the Career tributes show off their massive skill set," he said, leaning forward and propping his arms on the table. "I want you to do the opposite."

He turned to Charles. "I understand you're decent with a bow."

Charles cast a swift glance at Katherine, who blushed ever so slightly, before shrugging with one shoulder.

"I'm all right," he allowed.

Haymitch grunted, clearly disbelieving.

"Look, I'm not going to turn you in to the Peacekeepers for illegally hunting," he said. "I am trying to work out a plan that will keep you alive. And that means not showing any of the other mutants your true skill set until the Games begin, which for you, Xavier, means the bow. They're going to have some mighty nice equipment, but I want you to stay away from it."

"But what about the exhibition at the end of the week?" Katherine wanted to know. "How are we supposed to be able to get a decent score if we don't practice?"

At the end of training, the mutant tributes were called in one by one to show off their particular skill set. The higher the score, the more talented the mutant was. It was supposed to be a clear indication of how the Games were going to play out—who the strongest contestants were and who had the best chance of surviving—and so the sponsors could put their bids behind the best tribute. In reality, what usually ended up happening was that the tributes with the highest scores were killed off first.

Still, Katherine had a point. If they weren't allowed to practice, then they would fail rather spectacularly in the exhibition.

Not that Charles was all that concerned—he had been shooting a bow since he was six. If he couldn't do it without a week's worth of practice, then he needed to get a new skill set.

Haymitch narrowed his eyes at Katherine.

"Practice something else," he growled. "Or better yet, don't listen to me, show off to all of the other mutants what you can do, and then give them a distinct advantage over you once the Games begin."

His sarcasm bled off him in such powerful waves that Charles was almost sick over it. The telepath was forced to physically distance himself from Haymitch, which wasn't easy to do, given the fact that they were all still at breakfast.

Effie made a breathy comment about politeness, which Charles ignored as he took a spot against the wall.

Haymitch watched him with a predatory gaze, but Katherine merely ignored him.

Charles crossed his arms.

"Anything else we need to know?" he asked, his words clipped. He didn't really appreciate being the center of attention like this.

The older man studied Charles for a few more seconds, before shaking his head.

"Try to learn something new," he advised. "You never know what might be useful in the arena."

The Training Center was a large, spacious room filled with all sorts of equipment. Everything, from weights to wrestling mats to a beautiful archery stand, was set up around the room.

The tributes obviously weren't allowed to duel with each other—there would be enough time for that in the actual Games—but there were plenty of officials standing around to offer suitable partners and coaches.

Charles stood in the entrance way, taking it all in, and trying to replace the barriers in his mind against the rest of the room. It wasn't working as well as it usually did—too much emotional stress, combined with the shocking turn of events last night, left him raw and open.

Giving up, the young telepath lowered his barriers completely, deciding to take advantage of his momentary disorientation to figure out what all of the other tributes were capable of.

The Careers were easy to find, being a mess of teleportation, super-strength, and adaptability that made them very dangerous when combined with the lethal training they received from a very young age. While training for the Games was technically illegal, the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 all did it anyway.

There was one mind in the Careers, however, that stood out from the rest. It was a beacon of light and intelligence, standing out against a rather dull canvas of brute strength and fear. It was surprising, along with the other mutant's ability to manipulate metal. That was a rather unheard of ability, almost as uncommon as telepathy.

Charles longed to spend more time in the other mutant's mind—it was a beautiful array of colors and emotions, some more powerful than he had ever experienced—but he didn't want to risk the other mutant finding him out. So with great reluctance, he pulled out and once more broadened his search.

He would later realize he never did figure out which District the metal wielder was from, nor which tribute it was.

There was one other surprise waiting for the mutant as he scanned through the multitude of minds. Her mind was completely different than those around her, drawing Charles' attention almost immediately.

She was human. In a field of mutants, vastly more powerful than she could ever be.

Dumbfounded, Charles stared openly at the girl from District 5. She was tall for a girl, a few inches taller than Charles, with shoulder-length brunette hair and hard brown eyes.

Her eyes met Charles', and he didn't need to be a telepath to feel the cold _hatred_ pouring off her in waves.

Charles yanked out of her mind, feeling immediately off balance. Before the young telepath had the chance to catch his bearings, Katherine was tugging him toward the survival station. Charles allowed her to lead him, mostly because he was still in a state of shock.

_What was a human doing in the Games?_

It was unheard of. Never, in nearly three quarters of a century, had there been a human in the Games.

Charles barely had time to mull it over as he and Katherine arrived at their first station. He was then forced to shove it to the back of his mind to focus.

The survival station was simple, offering information about dozens of plants, both poisonous and otherwise. Having lived off the land since he was a kid, Charles knew the majority of them, impressing both the instructor and Katherine.

"Where did you learn all of that?" Katherine wanted to know.

Charles shrugged.

"Through necessity, I guess," he replied. "I had to find things to eat beyond just what I caught in the forest."

He was going to say more, but the general mood of her thoughts hit him then. She was jealous. Jealous of the fact that he knew more about surviving in a situation such as the Games, jealous that he had had an opportunity to do so, while she hadn't.

It was surprising, to say the least. Charles had never thought of himself as very fortunate. Lucky, maybe, to have found a family in Hank and Alex, but not so much that he lost his parents and the home he had once. He had always had to fight for what he wanted, had never been given anything at all.

And Katherine was jealous? Because she had the easier life-perhaps not easy, but definitely a lot simpler than Charles'-where she was almost guaranteed to have a full belly every night, and she didn't have to worry about what she was eating would potentially poison everyone she cared about. She was given a warm place to sleep at night, somewhere safe and unquestionably hers.

They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Katherine didn't want to talk and Charles was too surprised to try to bring her out of it.

The two District Twelve tributes left the survival station and walked over to the camouflage station. Here, Charles learned, with some surprise, that Katherine could paint herself to look like her surroundings.

"My mother made me frost the cakes," she admitted. "If they weren't perfect, then I would have to do them over and over again until they were."

Charles thought back to the times when he passed the baker's window and admired the cakes, of all the times Hank had begged for one. It was surprising to learn that Katherine had created those masterpieces.

"It's impressive," Charles told her, with a little-too-big smile. He was still feeling out-of-sorts about what had been on her mind earlier.

Katherine blushed as she finished decorating her arm to look like a very realistic tree branch.

It was definitely a sort of ability that would be useful in the arena, but Charles knew with absolute certainty that it wouldn't be one he mastered. His art skills left a lot to be desired.

Still, the station did a lot toward improving Katherine's mood, as did the praise Charles and the instructor both kept giving her. A couple of failed attempts to do anything similar to camouflage from Charles helped as well.

By the time they moved on to their next station-rock climbing-Katherine was back to her usual, bouncy self.

(0)

A few hours later found Charles sitting with Katherine in the mess for lunch. Once more, the food was more lavish than anything Charles had ever had, but he had no appetite. There were too many unanswered questions floating around in his mind, questions that were dangerous to know the answers to.

He glanced around the mess hall, absently fiddling with his fork. Charles was unsurprised to find all of the Careers crowded around one large table, their plates overflowing with food. It looked as though that particular alliance had already begun. The other tributes, however, were spread across the rest of the cafeteria, sitting either by themselves, or with their District mate. None of them were really talking.

Charles' gaze rested on a tiny girl with _11_ on her sleeves sitting by herself in the far corner of the cafeteria. From his mind sweep earlier, he knew that she was a telekinetic, with limited telepathic abilities as well.

He had not, however, realized just how _young_ she was. She looked barely six, let alone old enough to compete in the Games.

She was so _small_, with light brown hair that was pulled back into a messy braid, and huge blue eyes that reminded Charles all too much of Hank.

The girl sensed Charles' stare and looked up, her eyes locking on to the older boy's. A soft smile spread across Charles' face before he could stop it, and she smiled shyly in response.

Something broke inside of Charles at that moment. She reminded him so much of his brother, the one he had come here to protect, that it physically hurt him to find her here. How could _no_ one have volunteered for her?

Katherine was speaking to him, asking him if he was all right, but Charles barely heard her. He looked back at his food, feeling sick.

This was barbaric. All of it. It was one thing for a bunch of older mutants to be thrown together and be expected to murder each other. It was entirely another to throw _twelve-year-olds_ into that mix. How could _anyone_ want to harm something that innocent?

Somewhere nearby, a buzzer was sounding, signaling the end of the lunch hour.

Charles stood up and filed out of the mess behind Katherine, barely able to contain his seething anger. On some level, he knew he would never be able to change this, that this had happened every year for the past seventy-four, and would happen for centuries more. But that did little to soothe his hatred for the Capitol.

Katherine seemed to sense his change in mood, for she didn't say anything for the rest of the afternoon. A part of Charles felt bad over that, but it was miniscule compared to the rest of his rage.

He threw every bit of energy he had into learning the skills the Capitol deemed important for the Games for the rest of the afternoon, finding that it was enough of a distraction to keep his mind away from dangerous territories.

The buzzer for the end of the first training rang some time later, and Charles tiredly followed Katherine back to the penthouse. He threw himself down on his bed, too tired to eat dinner, and fell asleep almost immediately.

(0)

The next day went more or less the same way, save for one exception.

Charles and Katherine were at their third station of the morning, when Katherine gently tapped Charles' shoulder.

"You have a follower," she said with a smile, pointing.

The little girl from 11 was standing a few yards away, staring openly at Charles with a look of awe on her face. When she caught him staring, she quickly looked away.

Charles smiled, despite himself.

"She's cute," he allowed.

Katherine stared at him with a little too much understanding in her eyes. Charles looked away and back to the knot he was supposed to be tying, uncomfortable from the scrutinizing stare. She shouldn't have been able to read him so clearly.

(0)

The rest of the morning, the girl from 11 shadowed them. Charles found that he didn't mind so much, having been used to Hank following him through the forest dawn till dusk.

At lunch, she ventured to sit at the same table, only a few seats down. Charles wanted to offer her the chance to sit with them, but stopped himself. He couldn't make friends with her, no matter how much she reminded him of Hank. That was dangerous, and there was no happy ending to that story.

With that unhappy thought, Charles returned to the Training Center with Katherine and once more threw himself into the stations with angered passion and collapsed into a dreamless sleep later that night.

(0)

The girl from 11 followed them around for the rest of the training time, never daring to get any closer than a few feet.

(0)

The last day of training arrived, and with it, the exhibition. Later that evening, after the scores had been posted, there would be a series of interviews as well, hosted by Caesar Flickerman, which would introduce the tributes to the viewers.

Charles found he was looking forward to the exhibition, if only because it meant he had the chance to shoot a bow and arrow. Having gone almost an entire week without it, he was beginning to miss the simplicity of it.

He woke early, which was becoming a rather annoying habit of his, and ate a subdued breakfast with Katherine and Effie. Haymitch and the prep team members were nowhere in sight. Charles thought it better not to ask.

Effie escorted them down to the Training Center, leading them to a small side room.

"You'll wait here until you're called," she instructed, before promptly leaving.

A handful of other tributes were already in the room. Among them were the girl from 11 and the human from 5. Charles had to force himself not to stare openly at the both of them.

The rest of the tributes eventually joined them, before disappearing one at a time through the doors to the Training Center. A part of Charles knew that he should probably be taking this time to glean information about the other mutants' specific abilities outside of their mutations, but he was far too nervous to risk diving into another's mind.

Both all too soon and far too long later, it was Charles' turn. By then, it was only him left in the small room. All of the other tributes had already gone, and hadn't returned.

"Charles Xavier. District 12."

A soft, automated voice spoke seconds before the doors open.

Charles took a deep breath to calm himself before walking into the Training Center.

Instantly, the Gamemakers' thoughts and moods crashed over him, threatening to tear apart his carefully constructed shields. Charles gritted his teeth and quickly reinforced them, but not before he picked up on the _boredom_ pouring off the Gamemakers in waves. Clearly, they were sick of being here.

The young telepath thought that unfair—it wasn't as though he _wanted_ to be here, either, and _they_ didn't stand the distinct possibility of _dying_.

He shoved that thought out of his head, instead focusing on the archery stand. It was a few feet away and it took all of Charles' self-control not to race over to it.

The feel of the bow was different than he was used to, which made sense. This was a Capitol manufactured bow, made with top of the line materials, while Charles' was constructed out of whatever sticks and twine he had been able to get a hold of.

He lifted it, drawing the string back lightly, surprised by how tense it was.

Taking a deep breath, Charles picked up one of the dozens of multicolored arrows and walked over to the shooting range. There was a human target set up, about ten yards away.

He took aim and let loose the first arrow.

To his embarrassed surprise, the arrow went well to the left of the target, not coming anywhere close.

There was laughter from the Gamemakers, making Charles burn red with shame.

He stalked back over to the archery stand and picked up a handful of arrows, before storming back over to the shooting range.

Charles fired arrow after arrow, letting his anger and embarrassment fuel his shooting.

He made ten perfect kill shots—five in the head and five in the heart.

Raucous laughter sounded from above, alerting Charles to the fact that none of the Gamemakers had noticed his shooting.

Hurt, he turned to look at the Gamemakers, and was stunned when he saw them all gathered around a dead _pig_, joking about what it looked like.

Outrage flooded the young telepath's veins, erasing all sense of rational thought. He lifted the bow, took aim, and fired.

The arrow struck home, dead center, in the apple in the pig's mouth.

The Gamemakers fell silent, all staring at Charles with a mixture of fear and alarm.

Charles didn't say a word as he dropped the bow, turned around, and stormed out.


	5. Dark Days

_What's this? An update a week later? Gasp! (And it's four pages longer than the last update, too...)_

_If I haven't responded to your reviews, I apologize! I tried to get them all, but if I missed yours, it's nothing personal! I promise!_

_Also... due to the fact that I move in to college on Saturday and start classes next week, I probably won't be updating for a while... but this story _will_ be finished. I promise. _

**The Mutant Games**

**Chapter 5: Dark Days**

"You did _what_?"

To say that Effie was outraged about what Charles had done was to say that life in District 12 was easy.

They were all gathered in the dining room. Food was laid on the table, but no one was eating.

Haymitch and Effie were seated on opposite sides of the table. Cinna and Portia sat next to them, and Katherine sitting next to Portia.

Charles sat far away from everyone else, with his arms folded across his chest and a heavy scowl on his face.

"It's their own fault," he muttered. "They're the ones who weren't paying attention to me."

"That isn't true!" Effie protested, though she was cut off by Haymitch's laugh.

Charles turned toward the older man, somehow unsurprised that he found this humorous.

Haymitch was smiling. "You've got guts, kid," he said, raising his glass toward the young telepath.

Effie sniffed righteously.

"That's all good and well, but what about the consequences?" she demanded. "How is he going to get sponsors when the Gamemakers give him a low score for his disobedience?"

She whirled, pointing a finger as she glowered at Charles.

"You made a serious mistake!" she all but shrieked. "Endangering the lives of the Gamemakers like that…"

"I wasn't aiming at them!" Charles exploded, his anger finally getting the better of him. "I was aiming for the _pig_, which I hit, by the way. They _weren't_ in danger!"

"That's not how they're going to see it!" Effie retorted. "They're going to think you made a lucky shot! And don't think you're the only one this is going to affect!"

Up until that point, Charles had been feeling rather defensive over what he had done. Now, though, cold, hard _terror_ flooded through him as he realized what she meant.

Hank and Alex were in danger, and it was all because of him.

He was hardly aware of the yelling and heated conversations going on around him until, very suddenly, Cinna's face was inches away from his own.

Charles jumped, flinching when Cinna placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Relax," the stylist said calmly, a soft, understanding smile on his face. "Your brothers aren't in danger."

Charles looked at him to Haymitch and back again, his eyes wide with fear and confusion.

"What?"

He couldn't believe that was _his _voice that came out as a harsh whisper.

Cinna glanced back at Haymitch, who started talking.

"The Game rules state that everything that happens during your exhibition is kept a secret," he said. "For the Gamemakers to punish you, they would have to reveal what you had done. And they won't do that for two reasons. One, it's against the rules. Two, it would make them look weak and might inspire an uprising in some of the further out Districts."

Charles stared, stunned.

Haymitch smiled slightly. "Your family's safe, kid," he surmised. "The only way they can punish you is by giving you a low score."

Effie made a disconcerted sound, one which Charles ignored. He felt calmer, now that he knew that his brothers were safe. Whatever the Gamemakers decided to do to him, he knew he could take it, so long as his family was safe.

(0)

Scores would be announced an hour before the interviews would begin. Until then, the tributes were supposed to be practicing for their interviews with their mentors.

Katherine and Effie disappeared not long after the heated discussion about Charles' behavior ended. Effie looked absolutely terrifying with glee while Katherine looked almost frightened.

Portia and Cinna left soon after to go work on the interview outfits. Before he left, Cinna paused to give Charles a comforting clap on the shoulder.

"Everything will work out," he said softly, before following the woman stylist out of the room.

Haymitch stayed in his seat, studying Charles thoughtfully.

The young telepath opened his mouth to tell him to stop, but then, another thought occurred to him.

"How did you know I was worried about my family?" he wondered.

Haymitch blinked, momentarily confused. He recovered quickly enough.

"Well, I doubted you were worried about any of us," he pointed out. "It also didn't help that you were projecting."

That, more than anything else that had happened that day, stunned Charles. Very few people, outside of telepaths and those who spent a lot of time with telepaths, knew what projecting was. Even less people knew what it meant.

He stared.

Haymitch let out a soft chuckle. "When you've been around mutants as long as I have, you pick up a few things," he said.

There was something about the way Haymitch didn't meet his eyes that told Charles this wasn't particularly true. For one, it was a generally unspoken rule that most telepaths didn't reveal their powers unless absolutely necessary, and for another, District 12 hadn't had a telepath in the Games for as long as Charles could remember.

He mentally sighed, knowing that asking would be futile. Haymitch wouldn't give him a straight answer , and besides, it wasn't as though it mattered in the grand scheme of things anyway.

"So what do we do now?" Charles asked.

Haymitch shrugged. "We get you ready for the interview," he said. "And hope that the Gamemakers aren't feeling too vindictive."

(0)

Effie and Katherine appeared a few hours later, with the latter looking exhausted and angry, and the former looking fed up.

A quick glance into Katherine's mind showed Charles that her training session gone well.

Charles', on the other hand, had gone fine. Haymitch had seemed pleased that when Charles wasn't trying to be a moody teenager, he was actually quite pleasant, and so, they had wound up spending the past two hours discussing various strategies for the Games.

Cinna and Portia arrived a few minutes later, carrying two black garment bags. They said little, while casting each other covert glances.

There was a loud beep, which signified that a broadcast was about to start.

Charles and the others gathered around the large TV in the main room of the penthouse as Panem's anthem played out.

There was a brief intro, announcing that this broadcast would announce the scores of the tributes. Then they cut to the picture of District 1's male tribute, with the number _10_ underneath it.

That was hardly surprising, nor was the female's 9 or District 2's pair of 9s. They were Career tributes, after all, and they generally got some of the highest scores.

District 3 earned a 6 and a 5 respectively, which weren't great scores by any means, but nor were they too terrible.

The male tribute from District 4 earned a 10. The female earned a 5, which was very surprising, given that she was part of the normal Career alliance as well.

Charles barely paid any attention to the next several, not really caring about the scores. None of it mattered, in the end.

Effie coughed slightly, clearly catching his inattention.

The young telepath turned his attention back to the screen, making a momentous effort to pay attention to what was going on.

They were now on District 10. Both tributes got an all time low score of 3, which had never been heard of before. Charles distantly wondered what exactly they had done to get such a low of score, and wondered if he would get an even lower one on account of what he had done.

The District 11 male tribute received a 9, which was abnormally high for such an outlying District. Usually, Districts 9-12 received the lowest scores.

The young girl who had been following Charles and Katherine received an 8, which was also another surprise. Charles couldn't help but smile, though. From what he had glimpsed in her mind during the training sessions, she was smart and clever, a dangerous combination.

It was time for District 12's scores to be revealed. Charles was fairly certain no one in the room dared to breathe as his picture flashed on the screen.

His mouth fell open at the glittering gold numbers beneath his picture.

There was no way possible that was _his_ score. The Gamemakers had _not_ given him an **11**.

Excited, and slightly relieved cheers filled the room. A feeling of relief, not entirely his own, swept over him as Haymitch's hand clapped Charles' shoulder.

Before the young telepath had the chance to shake it off, Katherine's score was announced. She received an 8, which was a fantastic score.

Still, Charles didn't miss the faint stem of jealousy that came from Katherine, even as she accepted the praise from the stylists and Effie. Clearly, she didn't like being upstaged by Charles yet again.

He mentally sighed, wishing not for the first time that week that Katherine wasn't the jealous type. He hadn't asked for this anymore than she had.

Effie shut off the television and turned to Katherine and Charles.

"Well," she said with a smile. "That went better than expected. We should have sponsors lining up to sponsor you in no time!"

(0)

It was a common characteristic of the interviews that they played to the tributes' strengths. Caesar Flickerman, the host, was very adept at bringing those out, as well as making a strong rapport with the tributes.

The outfits also helped, adding to the overall impression the tribute made. For example, the boy from 4 was wearing an extremely well-fitted black suit that showed off his sharp lines and angles, making him look positively dangerous. Charles, on the other hand, was dressed simply in a long sleeve, light blue button up and a pair of dark slacks, which Cinna had said would make him look a gentleman—in other words, perfectly harmless. It was a rather bold look to be going for, especially given that Charles had received the highest score in the history of the Games.

However, his outfit was nowhere near as bold as Katherine's, who was dressed in a sleek, dark red dress that shimmered in orange and yellow, making her look as though she were a walking flame. Clearly, Portia had wanted to accent just how dangerous Katherine could be.

Charles found himself unusually nervous as he waited in line behind Katherine for his turn to go up on stage. He realized that he would rather be back in the Training Center after his stunt with the Gamemakers than speak in front of the huge crowd that waited for him on stage.

Katherine was silent, which wasn't really all that uncommon as of late. She seemed to be embracing the whole 'enemies, not friends' thing already, which Charles had to say he didn't entirely mind. It was better than having to be careful about what he said around her all the time.

Cinna, Portia, and Haymitch stood off to the side, along with all of the other mentors and stylists. Effie was nowhere in sight, which Charles was grateful for. He always felt physically ill when he was around her, with her enthusiasm for the Games rolling off her in hot, thick waves.

Cinna caught Charles' eye and smiled comfortingly. Charles attempted to smile back and failed rather spectacularly.

On stage, the first tribute—the girl from District 1—took a seat. Charles barely paid her any attention, nor, really, any of the rest. It wasn't as though they were going to reveal anything useful, not with all of the other tributes watching so closely.

However, Charles was entirely unable to remain completely out of what was going on. He picked up bits and pieces, both from the minds of the other tributes that pressed on his fragile shields, and from the interviews themselves. Most of it was trivial, like pride in what score they had gotten, but some of it was useful, such as learning that the girl from 4 could not only fly, but spit fire as well.

The one interview that really caught Charles' attention was the girl from District 11.

She was dressed in a simple, white dress that was clearly designed to play up her youth. Combined with her wide blue eyes and her hair in two simple braided pigtails, it was a very heartbreaking effect.

"Please welcome, Jean Grey, all the way from District 11!" Caesar announced with a broad smile on his face.

The girl, Jean, smiled slightly, clearly nervous as she took her seat across from Caesar.

A deeply ingrained habit of always sending a wave of comfort to a nervous Hank took over Charles' mind, and without realizing the implications of what he was doing, sent one to Jean.

It was received with a very grateful _thank you_, which startled Charles, who had barely even realized that he had done it in the first place.

He cast a swift glance to the stage, where Jean momentarily met his eye and sent him a slight smile, which he was quick to return.

Jean was instantly a crowd favorite, which was hardly surprising. In the Games past, the audience had always loved the innocence of the younger ones, which only added to the hatred Charles felt for the Games. And here was one who looked more innocent than anyone else, and had also received one of the highest scores of the Games.

Caesar asked a couple of introduction questions, about how she was liking the Capitol and such. She giggled with every response, which only served as a harsh reminder of just how _young_ she truly was.

"How did such a little thing like you earn such a high score?" Caesar asked, looking to the audience. He gestured to Jean. "Wouldn't you all like to know?"

The crowd responded with a loud _yes_.

Jean blushed. "I can climb really high," she said. "And I'm also really fast."

Her shy, yet proud smile reminded Charles so much of Hank in that moment that he was forced to look away. He couldn't bear the resemblance.

He turned, fully intent on walking away—while contemplating what would happen if he missed the interview entirely—when Cinna intercepted him.

"Charles," he said softly. "What's wrong?"

The young telepath shook his head.

"I can't—I can't go out there and tell them my life story," he told the floor. "Not about Hank, or Alex, or anyone, not when they sit by and force _her_ to compete in the Games."

It was a testament to just how well Cinna knew Charles that he didn't have to ask who the telepath meant.

The stylist sighed. "This is perhaps the ugliest part of the Games," he said. "But it's necessary."

"Why?" Charles demanded in a whisper. "Why is it necessary to let them ogle us? _Why_ do we have to do these Games in the first place?"

The last question slipped out of his mouth before had the chance to fully understand what he was saying.

Cinna pressed a gentle finger to Charles' lips and shook his head.

"You know as well as I do," he said. "But it's dangerous to talk about. Especially here."

He cast a pointed glance around to the guards that were standing at all of the doorways, and the other tributes that surrounded them.

Charles sighed.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I just-."

He trailed off, but Cinna understood.

"Would you be willing to talk to me about your family?" he asked. "Forget the rest of the audience, and just act like it's you and me out there?"

The young telepath hesitated for a moment, before nodding once. That, he felt like he could possibly do. The audience hadn't earned his trust, but Cinna had.

Cinna squeezed Charles' shoulder once and gave him an encouraging smile.

"Just talk to me," he said. "Be yourself, and talk to me. They'll love you."

(0)

Katherine, surprisingly enough, was a happy-go-lucky sort of person in front of an audience. She made instant friends with Caesar, and seemed to take great delight in telling the world about herself.

It seemed to Charles that this was perhaps the first time where Katherine had the attention of others. Even when she was with the rest of the District 12 team, she was constantly being overshadowed by Charles' presence. That, combined with the small facts Charles had gleaned from her mind about her past in District 12, painted the picture of a very lonely girl who wanted some attention.

And now, she was getting it, and absolutely glowing with it. In fact, her dress was literally glowing, making her look like a human candle.

She was beautiful as she stood and twirled slowly, much the delight of the crowd. When she smiled—truly smiled, the way she was doing now—she was actually very pretty.

Charles couldn't help but notice as she left the stage, positively beaming with happiness. It was the first time, he realized, that she had smiled like that in all of his memories of her.

It was sad that it took for her to be a lamb for slaughter to look that content.

He shoved that thought out of his head as he stepped on to the stage.

"And now, our final tribute of the night, all the way from District 12, Charles Xavier!" Caesar announced.

The crowd roared, momentarily disorienting Charles as he took a seat. It was like the day of the Reaping all over again, with all of their excitement and near-lust hammering on his shields.

Caesar was talking, though Charles missed most of what he said as he vainly attempted to shore up his shields. Lack of sleep combined with stress and wrecked havoc on them.

The young telepath only noticed he had been asked a question when the crowd fell into a hushed sense of anticipation.

Rather than lose face by asking Caesar to repeat the question, Charles merely picked it out of the older man's head, momentarily suspending his usual rules of morality.

The question had been what impressed Charles most about the Capitol.

It took him another moment to respond as he realized that _nothing_ had truly impressed him.

"The food," he decided on at last, with what he hoped was a decent smile. What he didn't say was that it sickened him more than impressed him.

Caesar shared a knowing glance with the now laughing audience.

"Yes, the food here is excellent," he agreed. "Now, about your opening ceremony costume—that was _astounding_! My heart literally stopped when I saw you."

There were a couple of murmurs of agreement in the audience.

"Mine did too," Charles admitted. "I was worried that the flames would kill us."

"We're glad to find they didn't," Caesar said with a smile. "We wouldn't want you to die before the Games began, now would we?"

Charles resisted the urge to say that he didn't want to die at all. Instead he made a noncommittal noise and Caesar moved onto the next line of questioning.

"I think I speak for all of us when I say your volunteering for your brother was one of the most heartbreaking moments in the Games so far," he said. "The good-bye must have been hard. Tell us, what were your final words with your brother?"

Charles froze, momentarily at a loss of what to say. He let his gaze wander for a second, his eyes locking with Cinna's.

_Talk to me,_ Cinna's words from earlier floated through Charles' mind. _Just be yourself._

The young telepath looked back to Caesar.

"I told him I would win," he said, his voice far more brave than he felt. "I told him I would win the Games for him."

There was a collective sigh of admiration from the audience, and even Caesar looked a little teary-eyed as he reached over and took Charles' hand.

"And try you will," he said. "And try you will."

(0)

Charles stumbled off the stage, feeling disorientated from the sudden loss of contact with all of those minds. A gentle, yet firm hand stopped him from doing a complete face-plant.

"Easy, there, kid," Haymitch muttered from somewhere above him. "You're fine."

The young telepath took a deep breath to steady himself, grateful for his mentor's support.

Nearby, Katherine was watching him curiously. Charles wasn't exactly sure if he liked the look on her face—it looked dangerous.

Cinna and Portia came up behind Haymitch, both with broad smiles on their faces.

"That was excellent!" Cinna said. "You two were a hit with the crowd."

Charles glanced up at Haymitch, who gave a slight nod of agreement.

"Right," Effie said, appearing from nowhere. "Those interviews went over splendidly. But we all have a big day tomorrow, so let's get off to bed!"

Charles and Katherine exchanged slightly irritated glances that were softened by smiles. Effie was beginning to grow on them after all.

They all headed back to the Training Center penthouse, where Effie sent them immediately to bed.

(0)

Charles gave up on the pretense of sleep about an hour later. He knew he should be taking every opportunity now to do so, given that starting tomorrow he wouldn't be getting really any, but his mind was racing far too much to rest.

He slipped out of his room and down the hallway. Cinna had mentioned a special doorway to the roof earlier, and the young telepath decided that would be as good as place as any to find solitude.

He found the doorway with little effort and climbed the stairs. He was almost up them when a wall of emotions slammed into him.

Charles paused, not expecting anyone else to be on the roof, especially not a person with such powerful emotions. The telepath could practically feel every single thing the other mutant was thinking about.

Too tired to think about boundaries or the rights and wrongs of what he was about to do, Charles lowered the barriers around his mind and gave up the fight of keeping the other mutant out.

He immediately wished he hadn't as pain and anger swept over him in blinding waves.

This mutant, whoever he was, had lost his parents to the Peacekeepers when he was nine years old. Three years later, his best and only friend was chosen for the Games and never returned.

There were other memories there, too, all equally as dark. Memories of plagues and fires and floods that took away the people this mutant cared about.

Then, a dark, twisted relief as he shut himself off from the world, and an even more twisted desire to become a member of the Games, just so he had the chance to destroy himself.

These dark thoughts were strung together by one underlying message: _I'm alone_.

"You're not."

The words were out of Charles' mouth before he realized what he was saying.

He found that he was suddenly face-to-face with the male tribute from District 4; the tall, fair-haired boy with a trident.

This mutant was without his trident now, and dressed in the familiar training gear that Charles, too, was wearing.

_Erik_. His name was Erik. And he was the metal bender the young telepath had discovered on the first day of training.

This information came to Charles very quickly as the metal around them started vibrating.

"Come again?" Erik asked, his voice dangerously soft. His face was carefully blank, but his gray-blue eyes betrayed his surprise and anger at being disturbed.

Charles swallowed hard, having momentarily forgotten that he had spoken in the first place.

"You're not," he repeated. "You're not alone."

Erik snorted and turned away. "I'm in the Capitol, on the eve of what will probably be my last days in this hell hole," he said. "I can't rely on _anyone_ except myself. Tell me, how am I _not_ alone?"

Charles shrugged. "You're not the only one here," he said. More softly, he added, "You're not the only one who has lost everyone they've ever loved, either."

He instantly regretted his words as distrust and suspicion flashed across Erik's face.

"How do you know that?" the taller mutant demanded.

The telepath pressed his lips together, trying to think of a way of getting out of this without revealing his secret.

"When you lose someone you care about, it leaves a mark," he said. "Anyone who's experienced the same thing knows what that looks like."

It was the truth, in a way, but it wasn't the entire truth.

Erik looked suspicious for a moment, before accepting Charles' words with a shrug.

"What are you doing up here?" he asked. His voice was still hard, but there was a certain softness to his face that showed his change in demeanor.

Charles leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

"I couldn't sleep," he admitted. "How did you get up here? I thought it was only accessible from the penthouse."

Erik grimaced.

"There was a fire escape that I… I used," he said hesitantly.

A mental image of his powers effortlessly manipulating the fire escape into a ladder that brought him to the roof floated through Charles' mind and the young telepath had to fight against the urge to smile.

"All right then," he said. He turned. "I'll leave you alone, then."

He was about to take a step when the other mutant stopped him.

"Don't," Erik said. Charles looked back, surprised by the openness. It was uncharacteristic, given what all the telepath knew about his new friend.

The metal bender shrugged, a gesture that was almost _shy_ in nature.

Charles couldn't resist the faint smile that tugged at his lips.

"This is a bad idea," he cautioned, settling himself against the wall. "We're supposed to be enemies in the morning."

Erik looked away. "But we don't have to be," he muttered, so quietly, that Charles almost missed it.

The thought was so close to what Charles had been thinking his entire life that it was almost as if the other tribute was a telepath as well.

Charles sighed softly. "We don't have a choice."

Erik's mind flashed a brilliant red anger. The strength of it took Charles' breath away.

"We always have a choice," the metal bender growled. He softened slightly and cast a swift look back at Charles. "You proved that."

Charles blinked, surprised. He wasn't aware that others knew what he had done for Hank. Yes, it had been a televised event, but most tributes didn't stand around and watch what happened with the other Districts. It had something to do with the whole impending doom thing.

A very small part of himself that he refused to acknowledge also glowed at the idea of Erik considering him to be somewhat of an equal. That was a very dangerous thought.

"What can we do, though? In the morning, we're supposed to try and kill each other," he said.

It wasn't that Charles supported the idea—quite the opposite, really, for he positively loathed the idea of killing another mutant—but they were all pawns in the Capitol's sick and twisted game.

Erik sighed wearily, as though he had had this argument many times.

Charles knew the feeling—he actually _had_ had this argument with Hank on countless occasions.

An idea was forming in the metal bender's mind, one so powerful and so distinct that it was impossible for Charles to miss it.

He gasped at the possibilities that it contained.

"You're not in the Games to kill yourself," he realized out loud.

Erik looked back, his eyebrows raised in suspicion. Too late, Charles realized that he had no way of covering that up.

They stared at each other, one guiltily and the other calculative, for the longest of moments.

Not to Charles' surprise, he looked away first. He had never been good at stare-downs.

Erik shook his head, clearly guessing what had happened, and not liking the implications.

"You shouldn't have to hide who you are," he muttered. "None of us should. Not unless we want to. It should be _our _choice. Not the humans'."

The angry red cloud took over Erik's mind once more as he glanced back at the telepath.

"I'm not scared of you."

Charles shrugged once. "You shouldn't be. I'm perfectly harmless."

It wasn't the truth, not by a long shot. Charles was very aware of what his powers allowed him to do.

Erik snorted. "Right. Sure you are."

There it was again, that sense of _friendship_, that seemed all too natural between them. It felt to Charles as though they had known each other for more than just a few minutes.

Silence fell between them, but it was far from uncomfortable. It felt _peaceful_, and for the first time since Charles reached the Games, he felt himself relax.

_This is bad_, he told himself. _We can't be friends_.

Instinct, however, told him it was far too late for that.

"I should go," Charles said again. "It's late."

Erik studied him for a moment, before shrugging.

"You're right," he said at last. "No sense in dying of sleep deprivation."

Charles snorted.

"Not when there are so many other ways to die," he said acidly.

A small smile formed on Erik's lips, one that faded quickly.

"It doesn't matter how you die, so long as you die on your terms," he said, looking back out to the night sky.

Charles shook his head, thinking of the promises he made to Hank and Alex.

"I can't afford to think like that," he said softly.

If Erik was surprised, he didn't show it. Instead, he merely shrugged.

"If you don't, then it doesn't matter if you are the last one standing," he said quietly. "The Capitol will have won."

With that, he turned, and walked away, disappearing down the now warped fire escape, leaving Charles in a state of wonderment.


End file.
